


laying steps to the sky

by charcoalsuns



Series: sportsfest 2018 [8]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, Team Team Team
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-17
Updated: 2019-01-17
Packaged: 2019-10-10 07:08:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17421338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charcoalsuns/pseuds/charcoalsuns
Summary: Eyes are on Hanayama now; he can taste the hope in the air like Takeru's statement of purpose had opened a gate for them all.He looks over, smile coming as easily as his acceptance of this extended run. "Then let's go," he says. "Let's get ourlittle giantto Nationals."Or: Wakunan's foundation, from seven points of view that in the end, lead to the same picture.





	laying steps to the sky

**Author's Note:**

> (unposted, BR 3) [for a prompt by rielity](https://sportsfest.dreamwidth.org/10320.html?thread=1806672#cmt1806672):
> 
> The Biggest Volleyball Idiot: filler's pick
> 
> \--
> 
> i'd written half of this in, opens link to prompt,, july,, in a whirl of Feelings and being generally overjoyed for a reason to focus on this team, and finally i have sat myself down and finished it \o/!
> 
> **manga spoilers**? for developments in chapter 326

  


"Who is the little giant?" Matsushima asks, eyes wide. His nerves thrum in a reminder he doesn't need, that he may be one of the tallest here, but this is a high school team, and that alone is no longer enough to make him worthwhile. 

He isn't sure how he wants to ask anything of these third years, least of all his new captain. But Takeru just grins at the mention, as wide and bright under the gymnasium lights as his first greeting of their first practice, and Matsushima's nerves ease, enough for him to listen. 

"Ah, you heard, earlier?" Takeru lifts his water bottle, a toast to a story. "It was what, five years ago? Five years ago. He's a player who led his team to Nationals. The Little Giant of Karasuno." 

He speaks the name like an announcer at the Nationals game itself, clear and clearly impressed. But it doesn't sound familiar. Matsushima teeters on an edge of worry, panic floating below that he doesn't really know anything about this sport or its significance, after all. 

A light clap on his back startles him. "Don't look so worried!" Takeru says, his voice only brighter for the laugh in it, and somehow, hearing that sound of unfiltered delight, Matsushima only feels a little further at ease. "The school itself isn't much these days, it’s not talked about the way it maybe used to. It's no big deal if you haven't heard of it." 

Beneath Takeru’s palm, Matsushima straightens up. "The Little Giant is someone who inspired you to play like you do?" 

It's still cold enough outside that their brief rest is an exercise in not flinching from the wind through the window cracks, but one careful, curious peek at Takeru's face leaves a new kind of chill – the sort that spreads across skin until it starts feeling warm, instead. "Watching him play with his team, on that stage, it showed me that even someone with my height could learn to be great." Takeru meets his eyes, confidence through to his bones. "I'm going to learn to be even greater." 

It's an intimidating declaration, burning steady and almost scary from his easygoing expression. Matsushima doesn't know if he can reach the caliber of those precedent teammates. Not in this half-year he has to prove his worth. 

But Takeru's determined smile shows him something to admire, and more than that, something to strive for: he wants to be a part of this team, when Takeru reaches that stage.

  
  
  
  
  


Shiro's serves are stronger now, ever since he's added in a run-up and jump. More power, more speed. More opportunities for Akiu to practice his reactions, his reads. 

The net bends toward him like the back end of a slingshot, and Shiro, contrary to appearances, mutters a word that wouldn't pass for a swear in an elementary school. 

"That was a close one, Shiro!" Takeru calls, focused on his own serve practice even as he watches over them all like some kind of multitasking monster. "Nice pace!"

Shiro raises a hand, nods without smiling, sets up again with another ball balanced in his left palm. Akiu has a split second to decide whose serve to go for next, and a split second is all he has before Takeru's run-up reaches the opposite endline and he's in the air, form clean, solid, and unreadable. 

Unreadable, but this is what Akiu is here for – to make the variables connect. 

His heels leave the ground (too late, adjust next time), his weight shifts to the left (decent reaction, hone next time), his forearms come together neat as sliding doors (all right), and the ball _claps_ , across his skin and into the air, curving high toward a Hanayama whose actual presence is behind him, leaning into a serve of his own. 

(Close. Cleaner next time.) 

"Haha!" Takeru sends his way. No trace of disappointment, only that grin, as much a friendly warning as it is cheerful pride. "Nice reaction, Akiu! But I'm getting it past you next time!" Then, smoothly, catching an incoming ball on a single bounce, "That was in, Hana-yan, nice aim!" 

Behind Akiu, Hanayama is probably grinning, too, his slow and warm, easy as a breeze through the open windows. Takeru's cheer lends a foundation to their own, his pride in them a bolster to their drive. He's already holding steady the ball from Hanayama's serve, ready to unleash another toward their side of the court, and Akiu feels the answering pull at the corners of his own mouth, tilts into a crouch as he follows the strong, sharp angle of Shiro's next serve, ready to go again.

  
  
  
  
  


They lose to Seijou in the semifinal. 

Number four's decisive spike stings like a phantom burn across the side of Naruko's arm, where he, in turn, was not decisive enough. He sits between Shiro and Tabi in the stands, eyes red and hands folded between his knees, as they watch the final two.

Shiratorizawa seizes Miyagi's place in the Inter-high. Everyone left winds down through the lobby and out into the bright, humid afternoon: Wakunan among them, silent in the chatter, unremarkable in the crowd. 

"Let's go eat," Takeru says as they descend the steps. He hasn't shown a tear, or at least, none that Naruko couldn't see instead as remnants of sweat. "Before we take the bus back. Is that all right, Coach?" 

"If there's an open table for all of you out here," Onikoube says, a strange attempt at geniality in his gruff tone. It's not unwelcome. It's just – it's over. 

Takeru looks at each of their faces, not forcing, but not letting any of them turn away, either. "We're not in Sendai every day," he says, facing all of them at once. "We'll make the most of it, yeah?" 

They find a family restaurant a few streets away that has passed hours since its lunch rush. Bags between cushions, knees beneath table. Hands together, heads bowed. Plates and plates of aromatic, satisfying food. 

They are silent here, too, and not satisfied. 

A few drops of broth spatter from Naruko's bowl as his chopsticks slip around a piece of octopus. On his skin, they leave new marks of lost focus, faint pink against what has already disappeared. 

He doesn't know how to feel. 

Volleyball has never been his life, never been his every breath. But he has invested many breaths in the living of this place of his, and without warning, without time to prepare otherwise, his place has gone. 

Yesterday afternoon, they'd walked past another school's team as they made their way outside, bodies cooled down but still warm inside from their consecutive wins. There had been a short line of players standing before the rest, saying a few words. They must have been third years. 

Naruko doesn't know what he is going to say to the future of this team. Takeru, certainly, will say everything the second and first years need to hear, with spirit and grace and encouragement enough to give them a good push forward. 

Across the table, Matsushima's tears season his rice in twin unabating streams. He's getting no small amount of snot mixed in with every mouthful, too, but there's no room among them now to care about anything aside from the one thing they do care about.

_It's over._

Matsushima's done so well, these few months Naruko has known him. Done more than just keeping up, worked harder than simply adjusting to suggestions, and been more than a worthy rival in their shared position. Naruko finds himself wishing he'd had more time, to know him better. 

He reaches over, nudges a plate of garlic-fried vegetables toward the other side of the table. Does his best to smile when Matsushima looks up at him, lost. 

There's something he'll have to remember to say.

  
  
  
  
  


When they arrive back at school, the sun still hasn't set. Hanayama puts a hand on Akiu's shoulder; he starts, head knocking lightly against the window, and uncurls from where he'd fallen asleep. How he'd managed to is a mystery, but furrowed fingerprints mark the space between his brows, traces of bloodshot red the corners of his eyes. He hadn't been sleeping. For all the silence, probably none of them had. 

They stand tall as they gather in the gymnasium for their final meeting. The rafters are cavernous above them, lights bearing down like so many otherworldly witnesses. 

Takeru, he should have realized, stands taller than any of them. 

"I want to keep playing," he says, neither a demand nor a plea. The stubborn sun warms the sky at his back. "I know we third years have a choice now, but it's not only our decision to make. What do you guys think?" 

He looks across the space they've bookended themselves around, and in the moment he waits, he is no longer their captain. Akiu's eyes are sharp in his face, arms crossed like he's holding the pieces of himself together. Matsushima's tears have dried; his jaw is set in the drought. They exchange glances with their fellow second and first years, and somehow, there is not a question among them. 

As one, they bow. 

Takeru lights up like a power surge. There's a spark in his eyes Hanayama can see even in profile, and a glint in his wide grin that makes him seem as impossible, as indestructible, as a dream forged in steel. 

"All right!" Tabi yells. His voice sounds hoarse, but he's laughing. "I'm in, too!" 

"So am I," says Naruko, and Hanayama is the slightest bit astounded to see him swipe a quick hand across his eyes. 

Down the line, Shiro gives a single nod. Their coach looks pleased, though he doesn't say a word, letting them make this moment their own. 

Eyes are on Hanayama now; he can taste the hope in the air like Takeru's statement of purpose had opened a gate for them all. 

He looks over, smile coming as easily as his acceptance of this extended run. "Then let's go," he says. "Let's get our _little giant_ to Nationals." 

Takeru sputters. "That's not— hey," he reaches behind Tabi to thump Hanayama in the shoulder. "Come on, Hana-yan, that's not why I—" 

"It is," Shiro says. He isn't quite smiling, but he looks amused. 

"Don't back down on us now!" Tabi tells him, showing his teeth in a grin as he scrubs his hand across Takeru's head. 

Hanayama raises his eyebrows, enough for a reply. "There you have it," he says, chuckling at the rare sight of a Takeru lost for words. 

In a way, he understands why Takeru might hesitate at acknowledging his aspirations so plainly – they are each of them one member of a team, and in the garden of reasons they play, anything that leads them too deep into their own heads needs to be weeded away. But there's something Takeru forgets sometimes, when he tries so hard to keep himself fair. There's something he forgets to let himself have, when he's so used to making himself undemanding. 

Naruko is the only person Hanayama knows who can smirk softly. "We'll get you to Spring High," he says, quiet, like he's settling a score. "And it's you who'll get us there, too." 

"Okay, all right," Takeru says, shaking his head at them as he starts to beam, and maybe he's remembering – that his dream has been theirs from the moment they figured out how they fit into it; that his determination becomes their strength, flexible and persistent, more than an answer to the banner they stake over every court they reach. 

The space dividing their team dissolves as the immediate future is decided. 

When Hanayama crosses over to him, Akiu still has his eyebrows bunched together and his arms folded tight across his body. He’s shaking, a little. His shoulders cave beneath Hanayama’s arm, and his hands unclench, coming up to cover his face. Hanayama smiles with him, tears of his own peeking from the corners of his eyes.

They’re not finished just yet.

  
  
  
  
  


It's a bright afternoon in the beginning of September, four o’clock sun streaming through the gymnasium windows at Araikawa High like it, too, is unwilling to let go of summer. They’ll have a few more practice matches before the Miyagi preliminaries, but Shiro isn’t thinking about that. None of them are. 

He lowers into a shallow crouch, balancing his weight between his two feet, doing his utmost to make like Akiu and ready himself to move in any direction for the recieve. He stares across the court, watching. 

Araikawa's server aims toward the back corner, behind Hanayama as he moves up to the net, and _there_ — that is their first mistake. 

Well, not mistake. 

Not yet. 

Shiro shifts backward to match the incoming trajectory, Hanayama’s hand brief and steady on his back as he passes. 

First contact arcs up, forward – “Nice one,” shouts Tabi, pre-run-up on the left side of the court; “Nice one!” calls Takeru, readying for one of the same; _Nice one_ , says Hanayama without saying anything, only his form upright and reaching, not having to move a step from his position at the center of the net – Shiro doesn’t stop to watch, already straightening up, already gathering momentum, already seeking out spaces left uncovered on the opposite floor. 

Second contact sends the ball gliding quick over Shiro’s head, matching the rhythm of footsteps behind him. His palm catches air; he redirects his arm to avoid striking the net; gravity pulls both him and the blocker before him back down. On his right— 

Third: Tabi’s swing meets the toss, and two diving bodies are too late to prevent the resounding _thud_ that results. 

“All right!” 

It hadn't been Araikawa's first mistake— or, okay, misjudgment-turned-point-against-them. The whistle blows for a time out. 

The team comes together for a brief huddle as smoothly as they’d separated for that last combination play, high fives and hands against shoulders and grins all around: pleased, to be sure, but not satisfied. 

Shiro holds a fist up for Tabi’s, responding to his celebratory laugh with a nod. 

“Shiro! Nice job going right in for the attack,” Takeru says. He’s making the rounds on their side of the court, and when it’s Shiro’s turn, he slings an arm around his shoulders to accentuate his praise. 

Shiro doesn’t bowl over, not at all. “After the receive?” He glances sideways at Takeru. “You would’ve done the same.” 

“Well… I guess, yes.” He grins. “Can’t get enough of it. Of any of it.” 

By the time the whistle calls them back to the court, Takeru’s gone around to every member of the team with an encouraging word, a settling of strategy, and the physical ease of a sibling of several who communicates in touch as often as talk. 

Always put together, Takeru is. Sometimes, superficially, Shiro wonders if there’s anything left for the rest of them to do but to follow him. 

But as soon as the ball goes up, it becomes clear. They’re a team for a reason, and it’s not just a matter of rules. Maybe Takeru can’t get enough of the game, maybe he scores the most points out of any of them, maybe he only ever sees opportunities to make the next ball count. They, in turn, can’t get enough of the humble high he brings them. 

It’s their serve. The whistle tweets once as Shiro settles the ball in the palm of his hand. He stares through the net at the other side, at the place he’s already decided to aim so they have a good chance to score. 

If not on his serve, then on their block. If not on their block, then on one of their attacks – and the thing about their attacks, Shiro learns anew every time, is that they work best when they play out together. 

His focus on the ball and the space above the net, Shiro makes the toss, and leans forward into the run-up.

  
  
  
  
  


When Tabi lifts his head from his packed-away court shoes, the first teammate he sees is Akiu, who has curled in on himself, kneepads pushed down to his ankles in the only obvious indication that the match is over. His head is bowed like he’s praying, but his hands are fists on his knees. He isn’t moving. 

Tabi’s trying to push his will from his brain into his limbs so he can _do something_ when Naruko enters his field of vision, jacket zipped to his neck and another draped over his arm. 

“Here,” he says quietly, almost lost to the combined white noise of the lobby and the matches still happening through the double doors. In response to his jacket being placed around him, Akiu makes a sound that’s even quieter. But it’s just as audible; there’s nowhere else Tabi is really paying attention to. 

Out of the way of the lobby thoroughfare, Hanayama and Shiro are sitting across from each other, stretching, movements aborted by the way they keep having to raise their sleeves to their eyes. Matsushima looks like he’s following their lead, but he seems to be frozen where he is, feet pressed together, knees stuck out on either side, tears dripping from his chin and nose leaking faster than he can sniffle back in. 

Tabi’s view of them all gets foggy and wet. 

It’s over. 

Really, actually over. 

He can’t stomach the next logical realization, that this is the last time they’ll sit on the floor together among their track bags and game plans and piled-up coats, and that _this_ is how it’s feeling to do it. 

He can’t stomach it, so he does what Takeru would do – what Naruko has just done – and he takes care of someone other than his own miserable self. 

“Here,” he says to Matsushima, pressing a loose fist to his arm. Inside his fist is a small towel – he’d looked it over, smelled it first; it’s clean as can be, for now, anyway. 

Matsushima startles, less a jerk of surprise and more a bleary look of confusion. Tabi, internally, shakes his head at himself. He’d let Matsushima get too far into his own post-match corkscrew. 

“Take it,” he says, because Matsushima still hasn’t budged. “It’s not good to let your snot pile up like that, you know.” 

Matsushima’s eyes go wide. “Yes,” he says, trying to cover his face and take the towel at the same time. “I’m sorry. Thank you.” 

Tabi ruffles his hair, and there’s still a bit of sweat that hasn’t yet dried. The more welcome evidence of their day’s work makes him smile a little. “And, I guess I don’t have to hold you to that ice cream anymore,” he muses aloud. “But chin up, okay, I’ll treat you instead. Later. When we get back.” 

“But—” Matsushima trails off when he sees Tabi showing his teeth. It’s not a grin, far from it, but even without humor he’s still got _spirit_ , and that’s gotta count for something. Matsushima tries a smile back, and it even looks not-so-sad. The thought of ice cream must be helping. 

It’s when Matsushima turns away to blow his nose that Tabi notices two things: first, that Naruko is looking over at him, saying something that looks like _thanks_ but that Tabi can’t seem to hear this time, and second, that Takeru still hasn’t gotten back from talking to Coach. 

He blinks fast, trying to clear his head. He glances to the neat pile of belongings beside his, and back up, around himself, around their silent, shaky group, as if Takeru could have possibly returned without interacting with anyone. 

“I’m gonna…” He points vaguely behind himself with a thumb. Naruko nods, a faint smile on his face, moving his hand in a gesture Tabi decides to interpret as _yeah, good idea, go find our captain_. 

So he does, leaving Matsushima with a small towel he hopes he won’t get back, and leaving that terrible tension behind him as he retreats. 

The closest bathroom is empty. The next-closest bathroom isn’t, but Takeru’s not there, either. The hallway to the stairs to the upper levels of spectator seats; the wide, curving upstairs corridors; the benches in front of walls of windows through which the sky is starting to clear up – Tabi looks around them all, but no Takeru. 

He sits backwards on one of the benches, watching the clouds thin as they move. 

He’s starting to wonder if Takeru’d maybe met up with his family on his way back to the team, but no sooner than he starts does he stop, because if there’s something he knows about Takeru, it’s that for all he loves his family, at a time like this, he’d want a quiet space to himself – a moment of closure, before he takes on their sixfold commiseration with all the patience and genuine appreciation that some long-suffering goodness granted him. 

Tabi hadn’t seen anything broken in Takeru when they’d lost. Just that indomitable _something_ of his, helping each of them up when their knees felt stuck to the floor, not even a crack in his voice as he led them through bows and cleanup and cooling down. But then, Tabi had been crying too hard to really look, or really listen. 

If anyone were to go on and say who among them wanted to win the most, their first answer would be, naturally, that that’s a dumb kind of question to ask, how could you even quantify that, how could you rank their motivation in levels against each other? Their will, their spirit? Come on. 

The second answer would be: of course, Takeru. 

After everything, maybe Tabi should let him have that space. 

But… 

He thinks of Akiu’s jacket around his shoulders. He thinks of Shiro and Hanayama, unable to speak, but not turning apart, either. He thinks of the ice cream he’s going to be buying for Matsushima, and, might as well, for anyone else who needs it, including himself. 

He thinks: No. He’s not leaving Takeru alone. That’s not their style. 

Tabi stands himself up from the bench, sticks his hands in his jacket pockets as he walks back down the corridor. 

He’s got a friend to find.

  
  
  
  
  


_“—and with that impressive block-out, it seems a challenge has been issued! A battle of little giants is unfolding here at the Spring High tournament!”_

The commentator’s words tear into Takeru, disrupting his breathing for a moment before he calms. He almost wants to ask himself why he’s watching this, why he’s doing this to himself, why he’d set the TV to record the live broadcast and put it on as soon as he got back from school – but it’s tradition. This tournament— this sport. It’s bigger than himself and his feelings, it’s bigger than a phrase or a title, bigger than every minute of his life he’s spent trying to earn either or both. 

He can’t _not_ watch, even as he also can’t not react to the sound of his dream becoming someone else’s reality. 

Karasuno’s number ten darts in for the next attack. Takeru, eyes fixed on the flash of the number on his back, imagines dark hair, and a powerful form suspended in midair. 

But then the illusion’s gone, fading quicker than a memory, and Kamomedai’s number five gets the palm of his hand on the ball before his feet meet the floor once more – he resets himself, makes the run-up – and the _sound_ of his last two steps as he jumps, the presence he commands, the height he reaches— 

Takeru’s never witnessed anything like it. 

The commentators are saying something again, something about being impressed by how great this player is, how he more than makes up for his lack in height with technique and precision and power. Takeru’s both nodding along wide-eyed like he’s in middle school all over again, and shaking his head, thinking there must be something else to it, something else to _him_ that flows through his body like the blood of a mundane god as he surpasses everything that’s already been said and done. 

Even so, though. He’s got to be human, too. 

Like them, even as he isn’t. 

“Come on, Karasuno,” Takeru mutters. Pride in Wakunan is mixing together with pride in _Miyagi_ , and it’s a bit of a strange, burning sensation that drives him to lean forward, elbows and palms on the table as the match plays out on the TV. 

In the end, there’s nothing he could possibly do but support them. 

Three years with the best teammates he could ask for – and he hadn’t had the chance to ask for them, has never, if he could help it, asked for much of anything. The highest they’d reached was top four in the prefecture, out of range of the representative finals, out of range of the national stage. It tears at them all like a clever turn of phrase, like a personal shortcoming. 

But Takeru knows better than to let old wounds bleed, whether _old_ is five years, or one, or two and a half months. So he takes stock of the places where losses have cut into him. He tries to recognize the times he’d chased after a title as if it were a practical pursuit, as if it were a crown he could divide and redistribute, and not an illuminated dream for himself. 

And most of all, he remembers the miracle of sharing that dream. He remembers the scary, exhilarating high of being supported, of being trusted with more-than answers to the support he tried to give. He remembers their Wakunan. 

He remembers, and pencils in a new dream: that even if one day he no longer thinks about the sky he didn’t reach, he will never forget the one they did.

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> a smaller thing i love about hq is how no characters ever seem to be truly gone from the narrative - wonder if we'll see takeru watching the upcoming match between karasuno and kamomedai? 
> 
> LETS OUT A DEEP BREATH, at last i have finished the thing!! watching/crying over the stage play and these characters' live existences and how the wakunan cast became so close so quickly absolutely helped bring many team feelings to the fore ;^; 
> 
> in the manga and anime we don't really get to see what takeru's teammates think of his personal aspirations to surpass the little giant (during the bit in their last time out where coach onikoube tells him to 'go on and show them who the real little giant here is', i've wanted to sort of, peek my head around the edge of the panel and see the other members' expressions there, haha) 
> 
> but onstage there was no onikoube; that line is given by tabi (of course, who else, lies down in tears), and he has such pride in takeru there, and seeing the team so supportive of takeru too, of each other, reaching out in the aftermath of their loss so no one is left alone in their internal thought spirals for long.. it was A Lot T-T
> 
> thank you for reading!


End file.
